


Little Bitty Pissant Country Place

by demonfox38



Category: Lupin III
Genre: (You don't need to know about that to read this), Bed & Breakfast, Crime Scenes, Gen, Gratuitous Discussions of ''The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas'', Reader-Insert, You're also getting waffles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:07:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24575785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demonfox38/pseuds/demonfox38
Summary: Look, you're used to dealing with messes at your refurbished B&B. Most guests don't care about being all that clean. But, you're not exactly used to having to deal with the aftermath of a shoot-out with international thieves at five in the morning. Are you going to start your day with another gunfight, or can you swallow both your pride and cheap waffles for just long enough to get them off your property?
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	Little Bitty Pissant Country Place

You're used to a lot of shit, regarding this whole rental bed and breakfast gig. Most guests are fine, and some peel the paint from your grandparents' old bedroom and eat it. It's the nature of the business. You try to screen out the miscreants and the lugs, but on occasion, you're just going to have to deal with people who accidentally run their car through an abandoned dairy barn and end up face down in what used to be a cattle trough. It happens.

Maybe you just didn't expect it to start happening at five in the morning.

You may wonder, as you stare at your phone, why you even continue renting your grandparents' old farmhouse out. The answer would be more obvious if you got out of bed and stared at the bills piled on your kitchen countertop, but baby steps. Your phone needs to be answered. So, as gracefully as you can at such an early hour, you answer it. "Hello?"

"Hi! It's your guests!" If you hadn't met this dude yesterday, you may have thought that he was on some sort of stimulant. Maybe coke, if the quality of his suit was any indication. "We've got a little problem that we need to discuss with you, and we're wondering if you can help us out."

"It's five in the morning." You may wish to add "dude" to the end of that sentence, just to drive the point home.

"I know. Sorry about that." At least the guy on the phone isn't a total idiot. "But, it's kind of important, and we really need to go over it so I can figure out how much to compensate you for the damages, and maybe you can pick up some breakfast while you're up, too?"

Jesus. Christ. Or whatever deity you like swearing to best. "How important?"

This gets the wordy man to shut up. Well, sort of. It's a kind of silence that trails off into long "Errs…" and "Aahs…", mixed in with the occasional "Ano…" and "Sore de…" statements. Basic Japanese. Stuff you know from watching anime too goddamn much. Your grandfather would probably kill you out of shame for being such an unpatriotic weeaboo, but you're alive and he's not, so his spirit is just going to have to deal with it.

"Is anything on fire?" you ask.

"Nope."

"Leaking?"

"Yes! Well, no." The squeaky man is back to his full speed. "It's not a plumbing problem, if that's what you're asking."

You could just strangle that stringy dude's neck. "Then, what is it?"

"Someone kind of shot out a window."

Look. You might be a patient person. You're at least hospitable, considering the efforts you go to in keeping up your grandparents' house for guests. Your patience has shattered with that window. "You did what?"

"We did nothing!" your guest clarifies. "Someone else shot it out."

There's a migraine building behind the storm of deity-based swearing in your brain. "Call the cops."

"N-No need!" The chipper man stutter-laughs like a squirrel. "We've got it under control. Scared those ruffians right off! But, what we could really use is some food. Work really takes it out of you, you know!"

Oh, boy. Do you.

You may feel like a complete idiot for setting up this whole online B&B deal, but you are not. Going out to a remote location at five in the morning when guns are involved is dangerous beyond compare. Granted, someone could shoot your residence's window out right now and peel all of the electronics out of your living room, but the streetlights are brighter here. Also, the cops show up much quicker. But, hell. Curiosity keeps killing cats for a reason.

Now, what are you dealing with? Well, there are three residents out there. Squeaky guy, one. An Armani cowboy, number two. An actual, goddamn, what-the-fuck samurai, three. If the guy on the phone is to be believed, then there was one more person out there with a gun. Given the renter's confidence about the situation, it's likely that he's got some manner of arm for protection. And, if the sword that samurai guy was carrying around is any bit legit, that's at least three weapons you've got to watch for. Maybe more.

Definitely a day for your grandpa's shotgun.

"Look." You're not exactly in the mood to negotiate, but hey. Business is business. "The sun comes up in half an hour. Can you wait that long?"

"Absolutely!" Finally, the annoying little monkey gives you a break.

Maybe you smile. Maybe it's too early in the morning for that. "Okay. What do you want to eat?"

"Uh…" The squeaky guy trails off. "What's around here, anyway? A McDonalds?"

Duh. "The Waffle House is probably open, too."

"Ooo! Ooo, ooo, ooo!" That monkey comparison is starting to get all too accurate. "What's a Waffle House?"

"A house where they serve waffles. Chicken, too."

"Amazing!" At least Monkey Man is amused. "We'll look up a menu, and then I'll text you what we want, okay?"

It's about the most reasonable thing this dude has done so far. "Alright. I'll get you a receipt."

"You are literally the coolest." You probably wouldn't believe that if the caller weren't so enthusiastic. "See you soon-ish!"

With that, the line closes. You consider pitching your phone into the wall for a moment, then put it on your bed pillow. It isn't your phone's fault that you're in this mess. With a sigh, you haul yourself out of bed. Time to get dressed, arm yourself, and get ready to go. 

Is it also time to reconsider your life choices? Well, it's timelier to do that than to go out and get fast food for a wired weirdo.

Really, someone should have talked you out of saving Grandma and Grandpa's farm. It was over a hundred years old and falling apart even before your grandparents abandoned it to the wolves. But, hell. You had read entirely too many stories about houses getting revenge on their owners for neglecting their care. You respect whatever you get, even if it's all second-hand garbage. Maybe one day, it'll pay off. But, at least for now, it's keeping you in the black when all you can see is red.

Money. Driver's ID. Keys. Cellphone. Shotgun. Shells. Okay. That should do. You throw yourself out of your house, locking the door behind you like the responsible son of a bitch you are. Into the trunk goes your weapon, and into the front of the car goes you. And then, until your cellphone beeps again, you thunk your head into the steering wheel.

There's a part of you considering turning the car on while the garage doors are closed, but this is really just a mild inconvenience. Nothing worth making some poor schlub clean up your corpse over. They can do that at the farmhouse when your renters turn on you and kill you.

Speaking of which, ding! There's their order. Although, you kind of wonder about what they want. Are they really going to be into sweet tea? That samurai dude looks like he might be a bitch about it if it's not matcha. Well, if they're going to spit on your hospitality, they need to be in spitting range.

The garage door rolls back, and out into the breaking dawn your majestic ass goes.

Humidity never really fades in the summer. It goes from steam to slightly thicker beads, instantly clinging to your car the second you pull it out of its safety. The song of crickets is lost beneath rolling gears and the bleating country music drifting out of a nearby vehicle. It's sad when insects are more in tune than professional singers. But, hell. People know Adobe by Photoshop, not Audition. It was clear by the contents of an album's cover and its subsequent tunes.

Questions percolate like coffee in the oncoming Waffle House. Who were these strange, well-dressed people you let stay at your B&B? What are they doing out there? Heading to Nashville? They sure didn't seem dressed for it. Rural America didn't seem like the kind of place that the mafia or the yakuza would want to set up shop. Well, maybe for drug smuggling. That seemed too low for your guests, though. If not for culture, agriculture, or drugs, then what?

Now was not the time to think about that. Now was the time to get breakfast.

There was something fundamentally wrong with spending over ten bucks at a Waffle House. Not that it could be helped, with how much food your guests wanted. It might have been easier to hand over a menu, say, "One of everything," and call it good. But, you behave yourself. You get them what they want. Hell, you even get what you want on a separate receipt. Don't you deserve a little goddamn breakfast for what you're going through?

"Damn, honey," the clerk laughs. "When was the last time you ate?"

"Most of it's for my guests."

"I was gonna say." With that, she hands you your food. "Last time we had to make that big of a meal, it was for a bunch of damn college kids throwin' an orgy."

Your eyebrows dig down your face. "Out here?"

She nods. "Must've been tryin' to reenact _The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas_ or some shit."

Or some shit, indeed.

You're trying to keep it together the best as you can as you drive out to G&G's B&B. Unfortunately, all you have to think about besides your current situation is lyrics from Dolly Parton songs that the Waffle House clerk planted in your brain. Shit. You really need to organize your rules like she did. There's just no assuming any decency in the world anymore.

What would go on your list? Well, there are plenty of fine options. Rules like:

  1. No calling before sunrise. Cops and EMTs were being paid for that privilege, not you.
  2. No guns, katanas, throwing stars, boomerangs, baseball bats, or any further sorts of weapons.
  3. No breaking shit any more than it was already broken. (Although, these people were trying to be good on that point.)



No, wait. A new number three. A number three with a security deposit and—

And there was your grandparents' house.

No. Your problem.

The long drive past flush plant stalks gives your guests plenty of time to situate themselves. (Boy, your cousins must really be having a laugh, collecting money off the land while you were renting the piss-poor house still on top of it.) Dust unfurls behind you as you pulled up to what used to be your grandma's flower garden / cat graveyard. Before you could even get your plans straight, that stringy guy bounds out of the side door, all too happy to see you. Well, at least one of you is smiling. More importantly, his hands are empty. He won't be robbing you at gunpoint for fifty bucks worth of fast food.

You grab the stack of beverages, then hand it to your guest. "Here."

"Thanks!" Like the rude little monkey man he is, he reaches across your chest, nabbing the sack in the front seat. "I can handle this."

"I see." You give him the courtesy to clear out of the car before you open the door. "Wait, and I'll get the side door for you."

Boy, that dumb smile of his is addictive. "Thanks!"

Of course, you're not heading directly to the house. You're going to the trunk to get your shotgun. That brilliant grin your guest has given you dies off at the sight of it. It's all he can do to pitch the drinks and food upright on the roof of your car before he has his hands on the back of your trunk. Lucky for you, you clear out of the trunk before you get your fingers smashed. That's not going to be the case for your guest and his nose, if he keeps this up.

"I need that," is all you say before sticking your key back into the trunk's lock.

"Wait, wait, wait." The squeaky man's fingers are hot, sweaty as they cling to your palm. It's clearly not a heat from the food. "You absolutely don't need that. You're safe here."

"Really?" If only you could roll your eyes like a slot machine. "Because when someone shoots out a window, that means everything is just okay-peachy-keen."

"Listen." Your guest gets on his knees, dragging you down to the same position. "The people that were trying to hurt us are gone. You're totally fine. No need to bring that inside. If my friends see you coming in with a gun, it's going to look like…I don't know."

"Me holding you hostage?" Why did you volunteer that?

"Maybe!" Despite everything, the stringy man laughs. "Look, trust me. If either of them sees that gun, they're going to flip out. Like, cutting it in five pieces kind of flip out."

Your head cocks. "Before I could shoot them?"

The nervous little laugh he makes doesn't calm you at all. "Trust me when I say you really don't want to have a gun around Goemon."

Goemon. Yeah, that was a local name. You can feel your brain patch a synaptic link between the word Goemon and the half a thousand images of samurai pop culture tattooed on your cerebellum. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to pay a little more attention to the bookings, next time. It certainly would help in case you ever had to identify any criminals as your guests.

You hold your fading cool for as long as you can. "What about you? Do you have a gun?"

"Yep!" Out pops his silver needle-nosed pistol. It is definitely not something you have seen before. People around here have Smith & Wessons, Remingtons, Colts. Maybe the occasional AR-15, if they're extra crispy. Whatever he has, it's definitely not local. Not particularly new either, if the scuffing on its grip is any indication.

Maybe you should be a little scared of guns. Being in rural America as long as you have has dulled that fear somewhat. "Good. Empty the clip."

With a tap and a plop, out fall his bullets. Before he can say a damn word, you yank them off the ground, then put them in your pocket. A normal man might have been a little nervous about that, but your guest just laughs. The thought crosses your mind to toss the ammo, the gun, and the stringy man all into your trunk together. Anger huffs out as hot as bull's breath from your nose. That wouldn't work, either. Something about this weird idiot screamed of a lunacy beyond your own. Like he would shoot his way through your car if he had half the mind to do so.

It's way too early in the morning to solve a chicken-fox-corn puzzle with your guest, his gun, and its bullets.

"Okay." With that, you're off the ground. "Let's go see what you people did to the house."

"Our attackers," the squeaky man clarifies.

With that, he puts his gun away and scoops up breakfast. You manage to get ahead of him, but only because he's burdened with drinks and sacks. The only thing that hits you as you enter your grandparents' old house is the same mild smell of moisture drifting up from the basement. Memories of huddling down there during tornado warnings and finding the skeletons of mice behind Grandma's pickles comes all too quickly. Why did you have to think about that?

As you push towards the kitchen, you are quick to make your claim. "Some of that's mine, by the way."

"Fantastic! I love having guests for breakfast." He swivels away from the most obvious place to eat, settling instead for the living room. "Jigen, Goemon! Food's here!"

You follow him and slam right into a support wall.

Okay. You've seen these two guys before. They were with your primary contact when they first checked in. There's a minor difference between then and now. Then, they were properly groomed and dressed. Now, both of them are sitting on your grandmother's davenport, torsos bare as the cover of a torn paperback novel. What was worse? Thinking of her being flustered at the situation, or thinking of her being delighted about it?

Alright. Time to be professional. Professional. _Professional_. "Did you need me to run to Wal-Mart to…uh…get some more clothes?"

It takes Monkey Man a few seconds to run your words through his mind. "Nope! We're all good."

Goemon at least has the decency to look embarrassed. He lifts a clot of fabric from his lap. "I am mending Jigen's shirt."

"And where's yours?" your big, stupid mouth just has to ask.

"You don't want to know." Jigen crushes your thoughts like his throat pulps cement. "Are we eating or what?"

"You guys go ahead and get started," Monkey Man orders. "I've got to show the landlord our little whoopsy."

That's all Jigen needs to hear. He waves the both of you off, then snatches the first container for inspection. A flash of white fiber across a tan shoulder catches your eye. Cotton padding. Stitches. First aid materials. That was definitely not something you kept at the B&B. A box of Band-Aids? Sure. Surgical-grade materials? No.

What has Goemon been using needles all on today?

You've got enough dignity to get out of earshot before asking about that. "Say, Mister—"

"Lupin."

Oh, yeah. Arsène Lupin the Third. You really should have remembered that name, given the big song and dance routine he did. Maybe it didn't help that you replaced "Arsène" with "Asshole" in your head. Anyway, you've got it now. Lupin, Jigen, Goemon. So many names ending with N.

"Lupin." You skirt past your little memory leak. "What happened with Jigen?"

"Ah, don't worry about that." Lupin shakes his hand like it is dirty laundry. "The bullet just zinged him. Didn't go in. Not the worst thing in the world!"

You might be comfortable with guns, but you are by no means blasé about what they can do. "Should he go to a hospital?"

"No need!" With that, he pops open the door at the end of the hallway. "Although, you might want to call in a good cleaner or something."

Oh.

Good.

God.

Look, you're not naïve. You know there's nothing sacred about any bedroom, and certainly not that of your grandparents'. It's a lot easier to pretend that fluids aren't in the carpet when you can't see them. The fall of blood has ruined that illusion for you. Alongside browning, tacky gore are bullet shells, shattered glass, the broken remains of a cutesy photo of kids on a dirt road. How long had they been farming? Well, they certainly weren't farming any more. Not with the number of bullets in their faces.

"Who did you piss off?" you ask. "Al Capone?"

"Nnnnot yet." Lupin speaks as if that is a distinct possibility. "I can't say I'm familiar with the people that attacked us, but that's life, you know? No matter how nice you are to everybody, you'll still make enemies."

Maybe that is true. Most of your enemies aren't armed, though. "You really should have called the cops. No. I should have called the cops."

"Don't worry about that just yet!" Even songbirds would be pissed at how gaily Lupin chirps this early in the morning. "Besides, Pops will probably be here by the end of the day. He'll be able to tell you all about who did what."

"Pops?"

It is terrifying how quickly Lupin screws up his face to imitate the man in question. "Inspector Zenigata of the ICPO, of course!"

ICPO? "Why would an international cop be coming way the hell out here?"

"Look, I'll give Pops credit." The smile Lupin has on his face is almost as warm and pure as the one he shared with his friends. "He may be really shitty about locking us up, but he's the best when it comes to tracking us down."

Cops. Rogue shooters. All coming after the bozos you let in your grandparents' old house.

Shit, did you just buy breakfast for international criminals?

It's a bit much. The stenches old and new. The speckling of glass all over the floor. The picture of the two kids shot to pieces. The very absent lack of calories in your system. Maybe you have to sit down a little bit. It still feels wrong sitting on the edge of your grandparents' bed, but heavens knew that these people just did something even more wrong on it.

Lupin has enough tact to know when you've had enough. He resists the urge to bounce on the bed beside you, settling instead for just sitting down. "Are you okay?"

Maybe? He's got questions to answer before you'll answer his. "What did you people do?"

"Nothing that bad!" Lupin huffs. "At least, nothing that deserved getting shot over."

"And that would be?"

"Just a little asset relocation." Your challenges make his eyes gleam. "Wanna see?"

Look, you've got some options here. You could just walk out of the house, go home, and call the cops on the lot of them all. You could punch Lupin in his stupid monkey face and risk taking a katana to the shoulder. You could find out what he did wrong, then turn that information over later to avoid getting an aiding and abetting charge. Frankly, as painful as the truth seems, it's best to get that. You can do whatever afterwards.

You just nod.

From beneath the mattress Lupin pulls a black suitcase. When he opens it up, its contents are so damned dazzling that you feel like you've been hit with a flashbang. Suddenly, you know what is in that suitcase from _Pulp Fiction._ It's right in front of your face, brighter and shinier than the sunrise cracking out of the broken window. That's the kind of shit that could get you not only a new window, but a whole goddamn row of farms.

Suffice it to say, you've never seen anything quite like that in your rustic little life.

Thieves. International thieves. A person can only repeat the work "fuck" so many times, and you're reaching the limit of that stack in your head. What are you doing here? Why do you take money from strangers? How is that remotely safe? How many passing drug smugglers, pimps, and murderers have you housed in the past? What were you guilty of that you had no idea about?

"Look, I know what you're thinking," Lupin admits. "You weren't exactly comfortable with us before, and now with this here—"

Well, he's got you there. "What in the hell are you going to do with this?"

"Well, here's the funny part! This thing is actually a part to this huge puzzle we found in a temple in Hanoi!" The chance to explain himself only makes Lupin beam brighter. "Now, I realize it's not in the best ethics to take this from a museum, but when you really think about it, this was already stolen once by excavators hundreds of years ago, so we're putting it back where it belongs!"

He gives you a moment to blink.

"And maybe find a palace of dragons in the process, but that's just a small bonus," Lupin adds.

Your brain is screaming. It vents through the lower recesses of your throat. Lupin pats your shoulder, letting you wring your frustration out. There's a part of you that could hit him. He might mean well, reporting the full aspect of the damage to your property and nostalgia, but it's rubbing salt in your wounds.

At least Lupin can sense your frustration. "Do you want to get down to business?"

"Yes, please," you manage to mutter.

"Okay!" With that, the itemization begins. "One double pane window. Manufactured by Anderson. Two thousand dollars?"

"Yeah."

Something clicks. You look up, finding Lupin taking pictures on his cellphone. Your own beeps as he forwards them to you. He continues rattling on as you stare in surprise, wondering why he would be willing to steal one minute and pay for his damages the next. "Let's see…carpeting, twelve by twelve square feet, vintage red shag. Do you want it cleaned or replaced?"

"Replaced."

"Still want to stick with carpet?"

Do you care? Well, sort of. It's your property, after all. "Carpet's fine."

"You know what? We'll budget for hardwood, just in case." With a wink, he sends off another photo. "That'll be another fifteen hundred. And the picture?"

"Geez, dude. I can probably find another one at a Goodwill."

"We'll say twenty bucks, then. Oh, and the bed!" He flops back down, the suitcase and its contents shimmering with his sprawling. "Let's say two hundred for new sheets, a thousand for a new mattress, and maybe another thousand for a new frame."

You are no longer comfortable sitting on the bed. "What in the hell did you people do to the bed?"

"Hey, hey! We tried to keep it as clean as possible!" For once, it's Lupin looking embarrassed instead of you. "Of course, then we got attacked, and Jigen got hurt, and there was all kinds of bodily fluids everywhere—"

"Lupin! That is not something you brag to strangers about!"

Uh oh. A new voice. A high-strung, haughty, _female_ voice coming from the bedroom's entrance. You look towards the sound of the new person, then immediately away. Well, that was certainly not someone that was here at check-in. It would have been hard to forget a rack like that. Hell, even Dolly Parton would have been jealous of a figure like that.

Well, you sure found out where Goemon's robe went. Not that it was helping to cover much of anything.

"Sorry, Fujiko." With a willpower greater than a god's, Lupin keeps eye-contact with his freshly washed and groomed companion. "You go hop up front and get yourself some breakfast. We'll wrap it up in here!"

She sighs. "Just like last night?"

"Fujicakes, please." He leans over to you, quick to help you keep your eyes locked any other direction than towards Fujiko. "Seriously, Jigen bled _a lot_. I can't in good conscience not replace the bed."

"Okay. Fine." At least the four of them hadn't been filming some weird international porno on it. Although, honestly? It might be hard to tell which mess would be worse to clean up.

With that settled, Lupin flips from his photo app to his calculator. "Alright! For one window, one flooring replacement, one picture of kids, one bedroom—”

"One extra guest that you did not report," you add.

"—And our breakfast order—" Lupin whistles as his final estimate comes up. "Let's round it up to six thousand USD. Sound good?"

Six thousand dollars. Over three months of your salary. Granted, it's all going into crap you're replacing, but that's a lot of money to be so flippant about. Just how good of thieves were these people to be throwing that kind of money around? Hell, was it even legitimate cash?

Well, there was one way to work around that. "Can you Venmo me that?"

Lupin doesn't as much as blink as he coughs up the dough. It's hard to stem the new stream of ideas now springing in your head. What if he was using a fake credit card to placate you? What was his average salary to be able to blow off six thousand bucks just like that? What in the hell were you doing with your life, working like you did to get so much less? Well, that's not quite right. Even this B&B was a gift. Maybe it was one you made after salvaging it from ungrateful relatives, but not everybody got an opportunity like this.

The least you can do is show some appreciation for the thief's honesty. "Uh…thanks."

"You don't sound very happy about it." The way Lupin cocks his head is the same as a sad puppy's expression. "Wasn't that enough?"

"No, it's fine." The truth hurts you more than him. "I'm just very, very confused right now."

"What about?"

"Why are you…" It's almost too corny to say. "Being good about this?"

All of that rubbery texture in Lupin's face screws up. He leans into his fist, as if he's thinking good and hard about your question. It really shouldn't be that hard to answer, should it? Then again, the likes of goodness and evil are sometimes outside of your own personal philosophical reaches. The world was not as simple as a cartoon.

There is a flash of light in Lupin's eyes as his internal lightbulb clicks on. "Did you ever see _The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas_?"

You can feel your eyes roll so hard that your optic nerves hurt. "Why does everyone keep bringing that movie up today?"

"You've got me. But, hear me out." He is entirely too chummy with you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as he explains himself. "That madame Dolly Parton was playing, right? She was a good woman! She just happened to run a whorehouse, and that just happened to be illegal. But, she was good to her employees and her man, wasn't she? Hell, her business probably would have kept on going if it weren't for some nosy jerk getting all huffy about something as simple as a business transaction!"

Maybe he's got a point. "So?"

"So, we're like Dolly Parton."

"You mean, Fujiko is like Dolly Parton."

The laugh Lupin makes is guttural, perverted. "Yeah, she is." With that, he spins back to his argument. "The stuff we're doing might not be legal, but we really try to be good about it. Give warnings in advance, take on challenges, fight those who would use their wealth and power for their own crooked gains. You know, Robin Hood stuff."

Damned if he doesn't make you laugh, too. "You could have probably led with the whole Robin Hood comparison."

"Yeah, but that’s not nearly as sexy."

"Neither was the real gal Dolly's character was based on." You try to keep as smooth as possible as you brush Lupin's boast aside. "Also, wasn't she dating a cop in that film?"

"Yes?"

"I'm just saying," you are quick to point out, "that that ICPO guy being on your tail like you say he is sounds a bit—"

"Well, well, well! No analogy is perfect!" And with that brief flush of embarrassment, Lupin hops out of the ruined bedroom. "Whaddya say? Breakfast?"

Oh, yeah. The reason you're out here. There is no need to sit around and mope any further. That just lets food get cold. Frankly, you don't trust a fuse not to fry out using the microwave you left in the kitchen.

It's not entirely comfortable returning to the living room, but it is a little easier to overlook the state of the three criminals waiting for their boss. Jigen's mended shirt had made its way over his shoulders. Its buttons, however, were still not in a state of closure. His tailor was in no better shape than before, but getting him to put on a full outfit would leave Fujiko in nothing. Look, she might be up for that challenge. You are not. You just want your damn breakfast.

If you had your way, you probably would be eating from the loveseat. Lupin sniped that spot from you before you even started forming the idea. And why wouldn't he? That was where Fujiko was. A less comfortable but acceptably distant spot would have been the fireplace's edge. But, no. Your seat is where Jigen was. Both he and Goemon have purposefully moved to leave you that spot, after all. It would be rude to turn it down.

Not ruder than breaking a window and getting blood everywhere, but perhaps comparable.

You sit down, then open up the clamshell for your breakfast. "Uh…who messed with my waffles?"

"Apologies," Jigen smirks. "Goemon just can't resist cutting things."

A hot huff comes over his shoulder. "I am being _hospitable._ "

Well, he sure was trying, anyway. It was hard being pissy about someone setting a meal. Especially, with the absolute correct ratio of butter to syrup that the samurai put down. "Thanks." Since hospitality is technically your job in this arrangement, you try to live up to your obligations. "Uh… _itadakimasu?_ "

That gets you not one, but four hearty replies. " _Itadakimasu!_ "

Look. Be honest. This whole situation is uncomfortable. You're eating with four international criminals, three of which are in a state of undress that is, at its most innocent, softcore. The food you are eating is cheap, half-cooled take-out. Nobody is entirely easy with talking. Not with food in their mouths, not to strangers, and not when potential crimes are involved.

But, really?

How many times have you sat on this exact davenport, looking across this living room, wanting to run away? How many holidays did you watch your grandfather staring emptily into the TV as people tried to talk with him? How many events were ruined by squabbling cousins fighting over whatever toy they found? How many cats of your grandmother's did you hold? Hell, how many times did you come out here just for the cats alone?

These people didn't know about any of that. Only one of them seemed even remotely traditional, and that was to a culture you had only a skirting, bombastic view into. Where there was once shouting and blaring, there was now a comfortable silence. Plastic cutlery scraping Styrofoam. Eggs and hash browns mixing. A giggle as Fujiko stole a slice of bacon from Lupin's meal. Hell, nothing stayed on anyone's plate. It all swirled around, hopping like flying elephants from place to place.

"Holy crap," you swear.

Lupin looks up from his dish. "What?"

It is embarrassing for you to be honest. "This is literally better than any Christmas our family had out here."

The grin on Lupin's face gets wide, stupid. "It's not every day that we're called better than Christmas!"

"Yeah," Jigen grumps. "Mostly because you're a Grinch and not a Santa."

That is a weirdly accurate comparison. Both on the surface level and deeper down.

"Look." Whatever guard you dropped has to come back up. That's just the nature of your business and theirs. "I think if you guys are smart, you'll clear out of here by ten. That'll give you enough time to be out of the area before any cops start poking their noses around here."

"Sounds good!" Lupin agrees.

"And…Hmm." You know what? You're really not in the mood for sausage. The guy who lost the most blood could probably use it, though. With a single push, you clear the meat from your container to Jigen's. "I can probably make another supply run, if you need something for the road."

"I might have to take you up on that." The laugh Jigen carries has a permanent bitter stain to it. "I'm out of bullets, anyway."

Shit. Bullets. You still have Lupin's in your pocket. Well, if you didn't trust these weirdos, you wouldn't be eating breakfast with them. They had entirely too many minutes on hand to poison or stab you by now.

A warm void meets your fingers in your pocket. Where did those bullets go? Did you drop them outside or on the bed? Cunning eyes catch the panic in your own. Lupin laughs, then solves the mystery for you. From his own pocket pops the very clip you had taken from him. "Looking for these?"

Damn. They really could have killed you by now.

And despite that, you still find yourself smiling at them.

**Author's Note:**

> I used to get the occasional request for a "Castlevania" fanfic with a reader insert character. Now, my major problem with this genre is that the reader is usually portrayed like a simping, passive teenager at the mercy of a bunch of randy psychopaths. Which, hey. I get most fanfic authors are young ladies, so it's easy to imagine the reader being that, too. But, when you're a full-time worker with your own residence and responsibilities, such a mapping of character just doesn't fit. 
> 
> So, my goal with this was to write with the assumption that the reader is some kind of goddamn adult with a sense of responsibility. For me, the easiest way to connect a general background character like you and me to this cast of cartoons is to think of what they interact with. Cops would fit, as well as hotel and bank clerks. The B&B allowed for some flexibility with booking, anonymity, and putting some distance between the reader and the characters at the start, so I went with that (as unlikely as it is one can afford the upkeep on two houses, never-the-less one.) I'm not sure why the rural Southern U.S. citizen flavor leaked in, but I think it may have had something to do with titties. Frankly, considering this fandom's base, it would have been more accurate to write a Japanese, Italian, or French experience. But, hey. Sometimes, inspiration flows like water and floods a basement. 
> 
> No, I have never been to a Waffle House. I have been to Nashville, though.


End file.
